


Photo-Shoot

by 8hephaestion8



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Armie Hammer - Freeform, Boyfriends, Inspired by Call Me By Your Name, M/M, Photo Shoots, Pyjamas, Sex, Timothee Chalamet - Freeform, same-sex relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-11-06 17:35:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17944148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/8hephaestion8/pseuds/8hephaestion8
Summary: Apparently Timothée was present at a photo shoot at Sunset Towers...This is fiction, don't @ me, I don't know them, this is made up.





	Photo-Shoot

Timothée snuck in to the shoot as Armie was changing into pyjamas. He walked around nobody took any notice, he was just another person, they didn’t really see him or know him. He went back out to the corridor of the suite and stood at the door of the second bedroom which was being used as a changing room.

Armie stood there in all his glory, not hearing Timothée as he padded across the soft carpet. Timothée told the stylist to leave by giving her the get lost sign, hooking his thumb towards the door.

Armie's ass glowed like a silver sun, round and bobbing as he began to step into the pyjama bottoms. Thicc thighs and strong arms, Timothée almost felt like dribbling, his mouth was watering, his dick twitching and growing thick.

The stylist shook her head, and said: ‘Armie, you have a guest.’

He spun round. Who the fuck had the cheek to come into the dressing... Naked, he eye-fucked his boyfriend…All the blood left his brains and went straight to the dick. The stylist's eyes practically turned over in embarrassment, she ran to the door, pyjama bottoms fell to the ground, Armie sprawled, ripping the silky material and falling onto his knees, ass now presenting itself to Timothée who promptly dropped his trousers and said in a loud voice:

‘I am not wasting that.’

Ten minutes later, Timothée calmly pulled up his trousers and told Armie to go back to work.

Armie lay senseless on the floor, blood had started to return to his head. What the fuck had just happened. Oh yeah, that little shit had just fucked him and he hadn't used a condom. He'd have to go shower, as he gathered up the bathrobe he had been wearing, he heard loud voices.

‘Get out of the tub…Armie come here…Armie...’

He couldn't come because he was leaking and his pants were wet.

He could hear his boyfriend gently remonstrating:

‘I'll get out when he gets here, I was just trying it out. Look I can get in and out quickly.’

‘Leave him, wait for Armie, he’ll get him out of there.’

Timothée lay back in the tub, it was lovely and warm and he needed a wash after fucking his baby. He rested his head on the back of the old style tub. His curls twisted softly, the colours in his hair shining copper through chocolate, his skin glistened like liquid marble. The photographer got his camera out in anticipation, Timothée's soft roseate dick bobbed below the rainbow coloured water rising to be scented by Chanel's new male bath product 'Boy'. He entranced everyone in the room, looking like a whole meal, the whole room began to hum with lust, both men and women. The journalist ushered everyone out, Timothée eyed him, he had worked out who he could twist around his finger and the journalist was one. He turned his multi-coloured eyes on him:

‘Let Armie get in with me. You’ll get better pictures with the both of us in the water.’

He pleaded with his eyes, and licked his full lips.

The journalist swallowed, he didn't think he could cope with that. He stuttered:

'Why don't we get a few pictures of you by yourself? Then you can sit in on the shoot. How does that sound?' 

‘Sounds great.’

This came from behind him, Armie naked under the robe, very evidently naked. His dick was still engorged, a result of both fucking and cleansing. He might be able to get some relief in the tub. He had to position Timothée just right...

'Get in baby'

Timothée's soft voice came from in front of him. The journalist didn't know what to do, his head flicked between the two of them. The hum had become a klaxon. There was four of them in the room, it was obvious two of them had to leave and it looked like it was going to be him and the photographer.

Timothée's eyes now shone hazel, Armie took the robe off - the eyes visibly turned green as they raked Armie from head to foot.

‘Hey Baby, come in, water's nice.’

He sat forward, Armie's dick bounced gently in front of him, he took hold of it and pulled it upwards. Timothée was mesmerised, Armie slid himself down Timothée's back gently, the water swirled around them displaced by Armie's arrival. He whispered in Timothée's ear, the others only heard a murmur, they were practised at nearly silent communication.

‘I'm gonna lift you onto my dick, relax and let me in.’

Timothée's eyes widened, the others got the message and left the room.

They waited outside, heard variously was vocalising, explicit sex noises, cursing, flying water, stumbling and then silence. The team didn't know what to do. After a while the door opened, both men came out of the room looking very satisfied, and dressed in bathrobes. Armie’s voice flicked over his head as he passed:

‘No tub pictures and no mention of my friend. Let's go do the bed questions. Timothée is gonna sit in...get some vodka.’

Later both journalist and photographer had very little memory of the shoot for different reasons, one because he had no brains left, the other because he was a necessary factor and he'd signed a non-disclosure form and both because they liked working in the industry.

‘Imagine a cologne made specially for you, how would it smell?’

‘Timothée you answer that for me, how do you like me to smell? If you can guess an ingredient. I drink a shot, if you don't you drink a shot. You get a bye’, the last said to the photographer.

Timothée wanted Tuberose, Amber, Tree Moss and Civet. The journalist had to take a shot.

‘Who's your favourite author?’

‘Same again. Tell me who you think is my favourite.’

‘John Cheever.’

‘Wrong, who is it Timothée?

For all six questions the journalist was wrong, his head began to swim.

‘We finished here? I'll get dressed. Do you wanna join Timothée and I in the bar?’

Common sense should have prevailed, there was none. At the end of the evening the journalist was put into a taxi, not knowing where he was. Armie and Timothée had dinner and went to bed.

Six months later, Armie appears in the magazine looking a million dollars, the journalist in rueful prose describes a shoot which sounds absolutely perfect. In the corner of one of the pictures is a slight figure dressed all in black, his head is adorned with dark curls, nobody knows who he is.


End file.
